Mechanics
by dear cecil
Summary: A collection of shorts focusing on Dell Conagher and his amazing-as-hell robot hand. Warning: Gore, cannibalism, sex, etc. Some chapters are connected to previous ones, some are stand-alone.
1. Knives N Shit

Sometimes I wonder if my sense of humor is a bit... off.

* * *

The night he'd found the plans for the Gunslinger, Dell couldn't believe his luck. His grandfather may not have been a great man to chat with, but he had made mechanical engineering more than just a job—he had tied it into his life inextricably, almost perfectly. Better yet, he'd left the instructions to doing so behind, for anyone to pick up and heed.

The problem was, it was only _almost_ perfect. When Dell had riffled through the schematics, and when he'd found the pictures of Radigan (God rest the old bastard's soul) holding the thing up prouder than if it had been his own son, Dell had almost lost his resolve. The Gunslinger was no mere tool like his wrench, nor an accessory that would come and go. It was a complete replacement for his entire goddamned hand.

While Dell admired the old coot's temerity, he was rather attached to his hand, no pun intended. The thing had gotten him out of plenty of scrapes, and it never let him down; it could grasp a wrench tight as a vice. And that wasn't to mention all its help throughout his teenage years! Why, without that hand, Dell would probably still just be a scrawny little nothing from Bee Cave...

It was only after catching himself waxing philosophic about his hand that Dell had shook himself out of his hesitance. ("Got me through my teenage years; the Hell was I even thinking?") He'd set himself to build the thing, and he had. If you asked him, he'd done a mighty fine job of it, too, tinkering with the design a bit to make it more flexible, a little more versatile.

Still, once he had the Gunslinger sitting on his desk, with the shine of new metal still coming off of it... well, he just had to stop and think again. Even if its sentimental value was a joke, there was still the impracticality of it all. Despite the increased range of movement and dexterity he was (somewhat) sure he'd given it, the Gunslinger was a bulky, clumsy thing, and without the benefit of feeling. Dell would have to learn everything over, this time with a clumsier hand. Even its merit of being an enlightening experiment failed to make Dell feel very eager.

Plus, there was the matter of all the women he might drive away with the Gunslinger attached to his wrist. But that thought implied he had any women to drive away at all.

"Aw, Hell."

So it was that, after a few (or maybe more than a few) double shots of whiskey, Dell found himself staring at the Gunslinger with a cleaver in his hand. The buzz of alcohol helped push his worries to the background, and the longer he fingered the knife handle, the more flawless his plan seemed. It would just be a little cut, after all; he'd had so much worse on the battlefield that it was a joke he'd taken this long! He could stand the pain—if it even hurt at all.

"It'll be just like a little bee sting," he chuckled. He failed to notice the cleaver wavering in his weak grip, his eyes glued on his right arm. He'd make the cut riiiight _there_, just a few inches back from the wrist, and voila! Operation Best Hand Ever would be a go.

"What could possibly go wrong?" Dell wondered aloud, the haze of the whiskey muffling the voice in the back of his mind that was screaming _everything_.

He swung the cleaver down with all his strength, and missed his mark spectacularly.

"Aw, Jesus fuckin' shit!" Dell instinctively brought his hand closer to him as blood gushed from where his four fingers (and half of his thumb) used to be, his knee banging up against the desk and making his severed fingers wobble in place. "Son of a bitch!"

The pain sobered him up with no regard to his desires, but the sudden push back into reality was what Dell needed. He gritted his teeth against the feeling as he laid his arm back down on the table. If he missed this time, he might as well resign from his job, considering his poor aim—or at least buy himself a pair of glasses.

This time, by some sort of grace, he hit the mark full-on. Unfortunately, the pain hit him full-on, too, and he couldn't help cursing more as he let the cleaver clatter onto the table, shaking his fingers once more. He might have thought pain like this would be stalled if he hadn't already had a similar experience, though that time he'd been cut by the RED Medic's Bonesaw—

But there was no time to think about that, and there was _definitely_ no time to rock back and forth on his stool like a little child. Allowing himself only a few moments more to dwell on the burning sensation that seemed to be everywhere at once, he grabbed the Gunslinger and put himself to work.

He would let no man say he was not dedicated to his work, for better or for worse. He had to hold up the Conagher reputation, after all.


	2. Anthropophagy

(n) **anthropophagy** (human cannibalism; the eating of human flesh)

* * *

The first time Dell had Respawned with his biological hand back in place and the Gunslinger lying uselessly on the ground beside him, he'd been first bemused (why would Respawn regenerate synthetic materials like his clothing and weapons, yet not the Gunslinger?), then annoyed (because damn it, he'd have to reattach it), then a bit horrified (because _damn it_, he'd have to reattach it). He had opted to lock it away in his little workshop until the end of the battle, and once he'd gotten back, it had taken him several minutes of silent contemplation before he'd been steeled enough to chop his hand off a second time.

After the third time this had happened, Dell came to the conclusion that he couldn't waste so much time detouring to his workshop anymore, nor could he sacrifice such a valuable weapon simply because he was too squeamish to immediately put it back on. He also didn't know whether he could stand sitting up every night just to dig a cleaver into his arm, but that was just an emotional hang-up.

Perhaps the biggest problem with the routine was all the leftover materials. Once he'd removed his hand and put the Gunslinger in its place, there was no real way to dispose of the meat and bone. Dell had quickly scrapped the idea of feeding it to the wild animals he knew must roam somewhere outside the base; it wouldn't do for them to get a taste for man, after all.

He was mulling over the problem at the BLU base's kitchen table for what seemed the hundredth time one afternoon when Scout, loudmouth that he was, practically solved it for him.

"This fuckin' sucks, man," he complained to the room at large, staring into the refrigerator. "I can't just eat all these vegetables and oats and shit, I gotta get some real food in me. I feel like I could eat ten cows, I'm that fuckin' hungry right now."

Medic sniffed from his seat, kitty corner to Engineer. "Despite the stupid phrasing of your complaint, I must agree."

Dell ignored the Medic's following ramble about balanced diets and other drivel, and stood up with a grin. "I think I know just the way to get you some more meat, boys."

Medic merely quirked an eyebrow, but Scout slammed the refrigerator door shut and whirled to look at him. "Seriously? How ya gonna do that, hardhat?"

Dell scratched his chin, feigning the look he put on when he had a good idea. "Hunting."

Scout looked skeptical, but he clapped Dell on the shoulder anyway, showing no regard for personal space as always. "All right, but if you get bit by some wolf of whatever, it's not my fault." He grabbed a sandwich (not Heavy's, unfortunately) before walking too-quickly out of the kitchen. Dell made to do the same before Medic interrupted him.

"If you _do_ manage to get bit by a wolf, come to my office before it lasts," he said firmly. Dell ignored the threat behind it, though he knew Medic always made good on his promises to add new pain if his teammates "insisted upon constantly acting like children," as he said.

After all, Dell wouldn't even have to leave his room to get to his meat.

* * *

And so it came to be that every few days, BLU would have a barbecue, courtesy of Engineer. He always brushed off their questions about his success in catching game so often, until even Sniper simply accepted that perhaps Engineer _was_ the better hunter of the pair, and ate his burgers in peace.

The only thing worth noting, thought the team, was Spy's inexplicable decision to take up vegetarianism that same week.


	3. Rosie Palms

Did you know that Rosie Palms has five sisters? Yeah, they're all really close. I know them like the back of my hand.

* * *

"Ambidextrous" was how Dell typically described his handedness when asked, but he knew that it wasn't exactly right. Where a truly ambidextrous person was equally good with both hands, Dell could clearly see the differences between his, though only because he was around them all the time.

He shot better with his right; in fact work, in general, was easier with his right. His writing was also neater with that hand. However, he could throw better with his left, and handle a knife better. (Admittedly, his ability to wield a knife well with his left had never been much of a concern until he'd started replacing his right hand with the Gunslinger every damn day, so he wasn't sure if that was natural or if it had come with practice.)

It was something he hadn't thought seriously about for years, and then he'd had the bright idea to mutilate himself just so he could wear a metal monstrosity day in and day out. Now, as he clumsily pumped his shaft, he had to question where his mind had been when he'd decided to replace his right hand instead of his left. He felt as green as his twelve-year-old self had been after discovering self-pleasure for the first time, and damn if it didn't make him feel like a fool.

It seemed as though all of the knowledge about pressure and grip and speed he'd once had was gone, like it had all been stored inside of his palm instead of his brain. He concentrated hard on his left hand, trying to ignore the temptation of just killing himself to get his hand back through Respawn, but the more attention he paid to it, the wronger it felt.

"Damn it," Dell muttered as he fixed the spacing of his fingers once again. All he wanted to do was get off, not have to adjust his hand like it was a watch that ran too fast, but the rhythm was too far off... It was like listening to an old song, only to hear the drum beat had changed speed while the rest remained the same.

With a grunt of frustration, he tossed all ideas of finesse or skill to the wind, and just gripped hard and tugged. If Dell was generous, there was something a little exciting about the ignorance (something he rarely admitted to feeling), something thrilling in the idea that this might be how it felt if some skittish-yet-determined young virgin tried with all their heart to get him off and do it right—

"Oh, God," Dell groaned as he finally came at the thought. His left hand might not have the swiftness or the panache that his right hand had, but, well... he could just teach it the ropes, let it in on the game.

Even if it took weeks of sessions, Dell was ready to put in the time. No Conagher ever gave up on a project, after all.


	4. Friction

I don't even know what to say about this._  
_

* * *

Dell hissed as the cool metal of the Gunslinger met his skin. Even just resting it on his thigh made him flinch, made his whole body aware of the spot as his hairs stood up on end. He felt the tension drain slowly from his back as he grew more and more used to the feeling, until the temperature equaled out. He didn't know how he'd react to the feeling on his cock; he'd been wondering since noon, when he'd rested the metal on the bare flesh of his left arm for a moment.

Dell's suspense had mounted as the sky grew darker, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't grinned when he finally got to the privacy of his room, where he could unlace his boots, shuck off his overalls, toss his shirt into the corner, and slide his boxers down when he fell onto his bed.

The excitement of finally being able to prove or disprove the theories he'd come up with throughout the day about his reactions was all-consuming. It was with that in mind that he finally let the Gunslinger (his new right hand, he reminded himself; the sooner he treated it like a true part of himself, the sooner he could master it and all it had to offer) meet the skin of his cock.

Dell jumped a bit, his gasp turning to laughter at himself. "Well, now that it's started with," he muttered. He kept the Gunslinger his hand pressed there, so he could get used to the feeling just like he'd done with his thigh, and bit his lip. Although his hand had been like this for a couple of weeks, now, he still sometimes had difficulty gauging his strength. It was one thing to punch the enemy Spy too hard (though if you asked Dell, nothing was too hard for that lying rat, even if he had accidentally caved the man's skull in), and another thing entirely to rip his own pecker off. It was probably best to take things slow.

Besides, the anticipation was enough to keep Dell hard. Seeing his own hand there, not doing anything yet, just waiting... It was almost as bad as getting a striptease. Maybe even worse, since he was so close, yet held back for even better reasons than a partner's playing had ever held.

Dell gulped. His grip was light, but it lit up his flesh like nothing else; he had to fight down the rash urge to just bear down and beat away. Instead, he slowly tightened his hold until his patience was stretched thin as a sheet of paper, pumping now and then to keep himself from turning stupid.

As he finally let himself go a little, jacking himself off with his right hand while clenching the sheets hard with his left, he thought seriously about how... _strange_ it was. Masturbation with the Gunslinger was a far cry from masturbation with his biological hand, in good ways and in bad.

The cold, unyielding surface of his new hand was intimidating and foreign, yet it felt just about as pleasurable as the soft warmth of his old hand. It was smooth where the original had been callused; hard-edged where the other had been rounded.

But there was still the matter of having to concentrate so damn hard just so he wouldn't hurt himself, something he'd never had to worry about when he'd been a wholly natural being. His body had naturally kept him from hurting himself unintentionally, and he'd been able to slide into the sort of mindless bliss that he sometimes needed.

And yet... the demanding nature of it all—being able to keep his mind on his hand and on his cock while he tried to think, or imagine, or just half-dream—was like a spark to his system; like the missing link between himself and the height of sexual pleasure that he usually only achieved with another person, and when was the last time he'd had that?

Dell distracted himself from his theorizing as he remembered the last person he'd been with, the slap of skin, the sweet stench of human sweat and sex, and came, his hand feeling warmer than it had before. "Probably from all the friction," he mumbled as he grabbed a cloth to wipe the metal clean.

Dell took a moment to admire his hand in the dim light, rubbing its joints and edges with his left thumb before shutting off the light and setting in to sleep.


	5. Technophilia

(n) **technophile** (a person who is enthusiastic about new technology)

* * *

Dell was well aware that his team's Spy was watching all of them, just as much a weasel as the RED one. It had been a struggle to get used to the incessant pricking in the corner of his awareness, the same feeling that had kept him on just this side of death countless times on the field. By now, though, the BLU Spy was just a constant that he was resigned to; it was kind of like dating a girl who owned a cat.

Still, ever since Dell had replaced his hand, he had felt it more than ever: Spy's gaze on him at every turn, boring deep into his bones as though they could map out his structure, unravel his secrets just by looking long enough. It was unnerving. Still, he went through his days as normally as he could, aside from being a touch more irritable. He wasn't going to let Spy's ludicrous habits get to him.

When Spy neglected to tell the rest of their team the secret of Dell's meat source, he felt that his opinions of the bastard were justified. What kind of sick fuck would keep that knowledge away from people who were supposed to trust him with their lives?

After that, though, Spy's watch seemed more oppressive than ever. Dell half-thought he could even feel the man's eyes on him when he was jacking off, but discarded the thought immediately; it was much too disturbing to consider further.

"Wouldn't put it past that freak, though," Engineer grumbled as he wiped off his right hand, then his dick. He'd taken to lubricating the Gunslinger with a simple, all-purpose grease that came in a small tube. It took longer to rub lubricant into the joints and crevices than it did to just spray the hand all at once with oil, but damn, was it worth it.

Dell was checking over his digits one last time when he felt it, that tingling, dark sort of warmth that he associated with having someone close to him. He flung himself around, his right hand shooting out to grab at the air before he could think about what he was doing. He could tell he'd made purchase.

"Take off that cloak, you fucking lecherous snake," he hissed. "Just what the hell do you think you're doing in my room? You get your jollies from voyeurism, is that it?"

Dell gripped the Spy's shirt tighter as the man's smirking face came into view. "And if I do?" Dell knew the ostentatious sweep of Spy's leer over his body was meant to make him uncomfortable, but he couldn't do anything about the blush that came to his face.

"Don't bullshit me, Spy," he spat. "I know you've been paying attention in all the wrong places, and we _both_ know you ain't saying shit about it... or am I mistaken?"

Spy snorted. "Obviously I haven't. There is no one on this team who could take the information without causing a fuss, and I must admit, I prefer the calm." He raised a gloved hand to pat Dell's right hand, then left it resting on the bulky wrist. "No, your secret is safe with me..."

Dell ground his teeth as Spy left the sentence hanging. It was easy to figure out the implication behind it: Spy would keep everything a secret, but only if they could make some sort of trade. "Name your price, Spook."

Spy was absolutely smoldering by then. "Touch me with this hand of yours," he ordered, trailing a finger over the buttons, the hydraulic lines, the same joints Dell had been poring over just moments ago—

"Come again?"

"You heard me, Ingénieur. Or is it too hard to believe that I might be as fascinated by this invention as you so obviously are?" He leaned forward, still holding the Gunslinger tightly. "It's a marvel of science... I can only imagine the hours of work you must have put into this, how absorbed you must have been—"

Dell watched as Spy's whole body shuddered, unsure whether he wanted to punch the man, back away, or just lean forward and keep on listening. He'd known, of course, that Spy was familiar with machinery (he had enough gadgets that he must be, by now), but if he'd known his reaction would be so visceral, Dell probably would have tried to use it against him.

Now, he wouldn't even be able to blackmail Spy with the knowledge; they were at an impasse. If Dell revealed Spy's fixation on machinery, Spy would reveal that Dell had made the team cannibals without their knowledge.

"I don't have much choice, do I?" Dell let go of Spy's shirt, fighting down the feeling of sickness as Spy seemed to relax and tense up at the same time.

"A true man of logic," he whispered, plunging the situation into a level of intimacy that Dell was not comfortable with. He loosened his tie and stepped back, seating himself on the bed like it was his own. "Come, Monsieur; I cannot wait all night."

It was clear that Spy intended to make Dell feel like less of a man with this, and goddamn if Dell was going to let that happen. If he could stand severing his arm every day, he could stand touching another man's dick—he _could_. He knelt down to unbutton Spy's pants for him, and looked up pointedly when he started to pull them down. "You're gonna need to lift your hips."

Spy raised his eyebrows. "Do mind your manners, Ingénieur. Rudeness will have little benefit for you in life."

Dell considered just ripping Spy's dick off, but he was still thinking rationally enough that it was just a temptation, not a real plan. Anyway, this would all go by faster if he just went along with Spy's desires; contradiction would be just as stupid as trying to swim against a strong current, and might come with similar results.

"Could you _please_ lift your hips for me, Spy?"

Spy grinned while he watched Dell pull his clothing down to his knees. "I should have told you to call me sir. Perhaps it would help to teach you proper obedience; you need it, dog that you are." His snorting laughter when Dell said nothing was jarring. "At least I won't have to waste my money on a muzzle."

Dell wrapped his hand around Spy's cock just to get the man to shut up, but it didn't work as he'd hoped. The man was apparently a talker in bed; the only benefit was that he apparently forgot how to speak English. Anything he said fell flat on Dell's uncomprehending ears... it even started to sound a little nice, once he blocked out the knowledge that not only was it a man moaning so wantonly right by his ear, but a man that he hated. At least he still had the option of ripping Spy's dick off if he made a wrong move.

He could tell Spy was getting close by the way he clamped down on Dell's shoulders, his fingers digging deeply, painfully. Dell recognized a few of the curses that Spy gritted out, and concentrated on remembering what they meant so that he wouldn't have to dwell on the way Spy's come was all over his hand. Awkwardly, he pulled himself away from the vice grip on his shoulders so he could wipe himself clean a second time.

When he finally turned back to his bed, Spy was gone, and Dell was half-hard. He frowned disapprovingly at his mutinous dick before taking it in his left hand, not wanting to do anything much with the Gunslinger at the moment.


	6. Going Full Retard

An alternate theory in regard to how Dell replaced flesh with metal; unrelated to previous chapters. Also, wow, this got recommended on TVTropes! To fit the occasion, I have decided to be totally meta and reference the hell out of the summary given on the recs page. As such, this is not the serious version of the chapter; I will post that tomorrow.

* * *

The instant Dell had unearthed the picture of his grandfather Radigan thrusting up his arm, hand replaced by the Gunslinger, laughing triumphantly even as blood dripped down from his elbow, he'd been sure of two things. The first was that he had to build the Gunslinger. Letting this sort of opportunity fall through his hands would haunt him for the rest of his life, harsher than any of the men's ghosts that might follow him... and he refused to deal with that sort of shit. Leave lament to the poets and the bleeding hearts.

The second was that, if Dell intended to wear the Gunslinger, he would likely need help. It wasn't that he was unsure about the switch; the mechanical hand was the sort of thing he'd been quietly obsessed with since he was a boy, dreaming of creatures made from metal and wire, moving like they had souls themselves. He just wasn't sure he could trust his body to follow his mind—self-inflicted pain went against centuries of human instinct. Risking the entire project on his ability to stay conscious throughout the process would be idiotic.

What he needed was someone crazy enough to cut through his arm, but sane enough to trust not to kill him in the process. The instant he'd thought of the description, the choice had been clear: His team's medic. The man was obviously sadistic enough; Dell could easily recall occasions on the battlefield when he'd seen him splattered in blood, ecstasy written plain on his face. Medic's obvious infatuation with hurting others made his ability to heal seem strange, and somehow wrong, but he was as well-educated in therapy as he was in torture. That dichotomy made him the perfect candidate for helping Dell move one step closer to true excellence.

Still, he had to hesitate. There was so much opportunity for the plans to go wrong, and all of them were glaringly obvious. For one thing, Medic was an intensely private man; simply getting him alone to talk to would be a challenge. For another, Dell knew it was one thing to hurt an enemy, and another to hurt a friend, though calling Medic a friend was truly a stretch. They were just two men who happened to work for the same company, which brought up a contrasting problem. Medic might be more put-off by their distance than he was by their closeness.

It was times like these that Dell wished he was less reclusive.

Regardless of his doubts, a man had never got anywhere from worrying, and it was with that thought in mind that Dell found himself trailing the doctor after one of the countless battles ended. Medic was splattered with dirt and blood from his boots on up, and from what Dell caught of his muttering, he was none too pleased. As such, he didn't flinch when Medic suddenly pivoted on his heel to glare down at him.

"Is there a reason you are following me, Herr Ingenieur?"

Dell raised his eyebrows. "Would I be doing it if there wasn't?" Medic exhaled harshly, his nostrils flaring. It made him look a bit like a bull at the rodeo, trying to think through the easiest ways to get a little pest off its back, but he wouldn't be thrown. "I think you'll find it intriguing, if nothing else."

"Fine." Dell ignored the sharp German, obviously an oath, that followed. He chose instead to concentrate on keeping up with the doctor, who seemed to imagine that if he used long enough strides, he could lose Dell on a turn. Having been short all his life, it wasn't exactly a challenge to pace himself against Medic; once they were inside the cramped medical bay, he sat casually on one of the scratchy cots and watched the German shed his coat and gloves.

"Well?" Medic demanded once he was seated at his desk. "Intrigue me."

There was no delicate way to phrase it. "I need you to cut off my hand. The right one."

Dell wondered if he should be concerned by the way Medic immediately perked up.

* * *

Medic peered closely at the Gunslinger through his spectacles, lifting the individual digits on it and letting them drop limply back into place. "As a machine, it is impressive, but this is still nothing compared to the marvel that is the human hand," he sighed. "It is one of the most complex, delicate organs in the world, and you are merely throwing yours away for a hunk of metal. Shameful."

"That 'hunk of metal' is just as complex in the realm of machinery as the hand is in the realm of biology, Doc," Dell said. "Not exactly delicate, though." He unhooked his overalls, pushing the bib down to his waist so he could unbutton his shirt and shrug it off, leaving him in just a white undershirt. "If you're that enthralled, I'd be more than willing to let you keep my hand once we're done."

Medic placed the Gunslinger on his desk and took up the Bonesaw, stroking the blade absentmindedly with one gloved hand. "Well, I suppose I could carry it for you for a bit..." He stood up straight, seeming to come to a decision. "All right, give me your arm, then. I do not have all night."

Dell obediently stuck out his arm, and nearly jerked it back away when Medic pressed the cold metal of the saw to his skin. The teeth of it were already biting in. "Uh, Doc—"

"What is it?" He looked impatient.

"A-aren't you going to numb me?"

Medic regarded him with a sort of deranged amusement. "Engineer, we are in the middle of nowhere, on a killing field where it is easier to simply die and be remade than it is to operate. Do you really think I have any painkillers here?"

Dell gulped. "Well, when you put it that way, I suppose it makes some sort of sense. But what am I supposed to do about the pain? I don't want to look like a little girl on your operating table, now."

"Grin and bear it," Medic said dryly.

Dell grimaced, staring at a poster on the wall of the health bay. The small kitten hanging from a tree was an obvious installment from the Builders League; Medic would never put something so nauseatingly inspirational within reach. "All right." Never let it be said the Conagher family bred something less than men; they were Chinese, after all, and had to do away with all the babby girls.

"Sehr gut," Medic muttered, pressing down harder with the saw. Dell gritted his teeth as his skin was punctured, felt the blood pool up and then trickle down through the hairs of his arm. He shut his eyes, but you couldn't really tell the difference because he was Chinese.

"Tell me a joke to take my mind off it, Doc," he said as the saw slid back, tearing through his arm.

"Ja, all right," the Medic said jovially. "What is the difference between a pile of dead babies and a Corvette?"

Dell felt a bit sick. "I… I don't know?"

"I do not have a Corvette in my garage back home," Medic said. His laughter was chilling, but Dell found himself echoing it, in a dull shock. His nerves felt like they were being grated, but by God, if he just ignored it—

"Tell me another."

"Oh, I have several. How does one get a dead baby out of a blender?"

Dell hunched over as the saw caught on his bone, grunting in pain. "I… Wait, I think I got this one. Tortilla chips?"

"Yes! Oh, I can't believe you got that one; it is usually too maudlin for my audiences. The Scout vomited when I told it to him during his physical. I made him clean it up with his shirt." Medic sawed away casually, but glared down at Dell's arm as though his stare alone could get through the ulna and the radius. "Here is another: How do you make a baby stop crawling in circles?"

Dell gasped, his thoughts wavering between dead babies, his arm, and his beautiful wife Smeagola back in Texas. "I... don't know." He groaned as he felt the saw suddenly jerk, his ulna broken through. He felt a little queasy.

"You nail its other foot to the floor," Medic crowed. His laughter combined with the bad lighting made him look like more of a mad scientist than Dell had ever considered himself to be, and he knew his reputation. He clutched his stomach with his free hand.

"T-tell me… another!"

"Engineer, you are so obsessed with the downfall of infants," Medic said lightly. "We call that schadenfreude where I am from. What do you call a baby with no arms and no legs in the middle of the ocean?"

Dell stared harder at the kitten poster. Everything was so wavy, it looked like the little thing was falling even as it told him to hold on. "Well, it just sounds like it's fucked, don't it?"

"Yes!" Medic shouted just as he snapped through the radius. "That is exactly the answer; you are very good at this, you know, we should speak more often." He smiled at Dell, all of his teeth showing, like a chimpanzee about to attack. "This one is a bit obvious: What is funnier than a dead baby?"

The answer didn't seem obvious to Dell. In fact, it sort of seemed like there was some line they were crossing, but that he couldn't see through the hazy white that had overtaken his vision. "Uh… A dead baby at the Apollo theatre?"

Medic smirked, but shook his head. "A dead baby in a clown suit."

Dell laughed just before he fell unconscious.

* * *

Medic was peering at him from above his glasses, nose nearly pressing into Dell's cheek. "If you are finally awake, answer me this: What is the difference between a dead baby and a trampoline?"

Dell just groaned. Now that he wasn't getting his limb amputated, he could tell intuitively that they'd fallen very far down on the scale between comedy and horrific imagery, and were deep down in a special pit of Hell. So he shrugged.

"When you jump on a trampoline, you take your boots off." Medic patted Dell's chest with a gloved hand, smiling jovially. "The removal was a success, meanwhile. You can replace the hand with your little robotic contraption at any moment, and with a bit of adjustment in regard to the respawn system, you should never have to do this again… unless you want to." He looked hopeful.

"Nah, Doc, I think I'll just… I think I'm gonna go." Dell pushed himself up and tottered wearily out of the health bay, trying to ignore Medic's shouted invitations to come back and talk any time in the future.

Like Hell would he go back there.


	7. Amputate It Doc

So basically I kind of forgot to post this, ha ha. Here is the version with absolutely no dead baby jokes, as well as a bit more description of the pain.

* * *

The instant Dell had unearthed the picture of his grandfather Radigan thrusting up his arm, hand replaced by the Gunslinger, laughing triumphantly even as blood dripped down from his elbow, he'd been sure of two things. The first was that he had to build the Gunslinger. Letting this sort of opportunity fall through his hands would haunt him for the rest of his life, harsher than any of the men's ghosts that might follow him... and he refused to deal with that sort of shit. Leave lament to the poets and the bleeding hearts.

The second was that, if Dell intended to wear the Gunslinger, he would likely need help. It wasn't that he was unsure about the switch; the mechanical hand was the sort of thing he'd been quietly obsessed with since he was a boy, dreaming of creatures made from metal and wire, moving like they had souls themselves. He just wasn't sure he could trust his body to follow his mind—self-inflicted pain went against centuries of human instinct. Risking the entire project on his ability to stay conscious throughout the process would be idiotic.

What he needed was someone crazy enough to cut through his arm, but sane enough to trust not to kill him in the process. The instant he'd thought of the description, the choice had been clear: His team's medic. The man was obviously sadistic enough; Dell could easily recall occasions on the battlefield when he'd seen him splattered in blood, ecstasy written plain on his face. Medic's obvious infatuation with hurting others made his ability to heal seem strange, and somehow wrong, but he was as well-educated in therapy as he was in torture. That dichotomy made him the perfect candidate for helping Dell move one step closer to true excellence.

Still, he had to hesitate. There was so much opportunity for the plans to go wrong, and all of them were glaringly obvious. For one thing, Medic was an intensely private man; simply getting him alone to talk to would be a challenge. For another, Dell knew it was one thing to hurt an enemy, and another to hurt a friend, though calling Medic a friend was truly a stretch. They were just two men who happened to work for the same company, which brought up a contrasting problem. Medic might be more put-off by their distance than he was by their closeness.

It was times like these that Dell wished he was less reclusive.

Regardless of his doubts, a man had never got anywhere from worrying, and it was with that thought in mind that Dell found himself trailing the doctor after one of the countless battles ended. Medic was splattered with dirt and blood from his boots on up, and from what Dell caught of his muttering, he was none too pleased. As such, he didn't flinch when Medic suddenly pivoted on his heel to glare down at him.

"Is there a reason you are following me, Herr Ingenieur?"

Dell raised his eyebrows. "Would I be doing it if there wasn't?" Medic exhaled harshly, his nostrils flaring. It made him look a bit like a bull at the rodeo, trying to think through the easiest ways to get a little pest off its back, but he wouldn't be thrown. "I think you'll find it intriguing, if nothing else."

"Fine." Dell ignored the sharp German, obviously an oath, that followed. He chose instead to concentrate on keeping up with the doctor, who seemed to imagine that if he used long enough strides, he could lose Dell on a turn. Having been short all his life, it wasn't exactly a challenge to pace himself against Medic; once they were inside the cramped medical bay, he sat casually on one of the scratchy cots and watched the German shed his coat and gloves.

"Well?" Medic demanded once he was seated at his desk. "Intrigue me."

There was no delicate way to phrase it. "I need you to cut off my hand. The right one."

Dell wondered if he should be concerned by the way Medic immediately perked up.

* * *

Medic peered closely at the Gunslinger through his spectacles, lifting the individual digits on it and letting them drop limply back into place. "As a machine, it is impressive, but this is still nothing compared to the marvel that is the human hand," he sighed. "It is one of the most complex, delicate organs in the world, and you are merely throwing yours away for a hunk of metal. Shameful."

"That 'hunk of metal' is just as complex in the realm of machinery as the hand is in the realm of biology, Doc," Dell said. "Not exactly delicate, though." He unhooked his overalls, pushing the bib down to his waist so he could unbutton his shirt and shrug it off, leaving him in just a white undershirt. "If you're that enthralled, I'd be more than willing to let you keep my hand once we're done."

Medic placed the Gunslinger on his desk and took up the Bonesaw, stroking the blade absentmindedly with one gloved hand. "Well, I suppose I could carry it for you for a bit..." He stood up straight, seeming to come to a decision. "All right, give me your arm, then. I do not have all night."

Dell obediently stuck out his arm, and nearly jerked it back away when Medic pressed the cold metal of the saw to his skin. The teeth of it were already biting in. "Uh, Doc—"

"What is it?" He looked impatient.

"A-aren't you going to numb me?"

Medic regarded him with a sort of deranged amusement. "Engineer, we are in the middle of nowhere, on a killing field where it is easier to simply die and be remade than it is to operate. Do you really think I have any painkillers here?"

Dell gulped. "Well, when you put it that way, I suppose it makes some sort of sense. But what am I supposed to do about the pain? I don't want to look like a little girl on your operating table, now."

"Grin and bear it," Medic said dryly.

Dell grimaced, staring at a poster on the wall of the health bay. The small kitten hanging from a tree was an obvious installment from the Builders League; Medic would never put something so nauseatingly inspirational within reach. "All right." Never let it be said the Conagher family bred something less than men. Dell gripped the edge of the cot hard, his fingers digging into the metal frame beneath the cold mat he was sitting on.

"Sehr gut," Medic muttered, pressing down harder with the saw. Dell gritted his teeth as his skin was punctured, felt the blood pool up and then trickle down through the hairs of his arm. He shut his eyes against the pain, but it pressed insistently, mockingly against his consciousness. He ground his molars together.

"Oh, sweet mother Mary—! Tell me a joke or, or something to take my mind off it, Doc," he said as the saw slid back, tearing through his arm.

"Ja, all right," the Medic said wryly. "There was once a man who was very ill. He went to his doctor's office for an examination. He was looked over, his blood drawn, and sent home for a week. The next time he was called into the office, his doctor was grim: 'I have good news, and I have bad news,' he told him. The man was nervous. 'What's the good news?' The doctor told him, 'Your test results came back, and we have determined your illness just in time; this report puts you at having only a few days left, if any.' The man was shocked, but relieved. 'What's the bad news then?' he asked the doctor. 'The bad news,' the doctor told him, 'is that these results came in a few days ago while I was in Aruba.'"

All throughout Medic's joke (if you could call it one, especially with his deadpan delivery), he had been steadily sawing through Dell's arm. He thought he could feel every nerve being separated, every centimeter of flesh being broken by the harsh teeth of the blade as it went deeper.

Dell felt a bit sick. "You got anything lighter, Doc?" he ventured. He thought his voice sounded small, but couldn't tell if it was because he really sounded like that at the moment, or because he was wavering between hyperconsciousness of his arm and deliriousness.

Medic took a moment to glare down at Dell's arm as though his gaze alone could tear through the radius and the ulna, but to no effect. His grip on Dell's arm near the elbow grew tighter than before and he seemed to lean into the saw, making everything grate so harshly on Dell's nerves that he could barely keep his eyes open. He moaned with pain when he felt an immense pressure and then, suddenly, a sort of snap that made all of his senses pop with it.

As though he could feel his patient slipping, Medic raised his voice. "Two friends go camping together. They catch some game, roast it on a fire, and set up their tent for the night. As they are getting to sleep, one of them sits up. 'I hear something!' He opens the flap of the tent, and sees a bear rooting through the remains of their dinner. As his friend screams, the bear turns, and they both run from the campsite as quickly as possible. 'We'll never outrun that beast!' says the second friend. 'I don't need to outrun it,' says the first, 'I only need to outrun you!'"

Dell laughed shakily. He had just enough time to hear Medic cursing his ulna before he blacked out.

* * *

Medic was peering at him from above his glasses, seated casually beside the cot as he scribbled on a notepad. "Are you fully conscious?" He leaned forward, frowning. "Count my fingers."

Dell groaned. His vision was swimming before him, and he was only half-sure that Medic's one hand didn't have six fingers. He went to raise his hand to his head and was instead presented with a bandaged stump. "Oh, Lord Jesus." He turned his arm for a second before laying it gingerly back down.

Medic patted Dell's left arm with his cold, rubber glove. "Do not worry, it will be replaced soon. If you ever want it back, I am going to store it in—"

"I really don't want to know," Dell said.

Medic sniffed. "Yes, well. The removal was a success. As soon as you feel capable of getting out of bed, you may; if you require assistance attaching your… contraption, I will be obliged." They sat in silence for a second. "You lasted longer than I expected."

Dell wondered if that was Medic's arch way of saying he took it like a man, and snorted.

"Damned right."


End file.
